


A Matter Of Time

by lunasenzanotte



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M, Spain, Spanish Civil War, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasenzanotte/pseuds/lunasenzanotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spanish Civil War. In a city already won over by Franco's forces, a group of Loyalists assassinates one of Franco's commanders. Hiding and waiting to get to safety, they don't know that there is a traitor out there...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter Of Time

_It’s around noon and the sun is shining, but the building is grey and cold, throwing a long shadow on the empty square. He shivers when he walks through the door. The walls feel thick and heavy, suffocating him. He‘s nervous, searches his pockets for cigarettes and matches.  
_

_The city changed over the last month, after the attempt on one of Franco’s commanders’ life. It was the act of ultimate insolence, to shoot him when he was passing in his car through the city already won over by his forces. It was well planned, too. He doesn’t know who it was that shot him, he can only guess who out of his seven comrades was the bravest one._

_He sent an anonymous letter to the Nationalist militia a few days ago. He didn’t have enough courage to write down all the names, but he didn’t even have to. If they found Casillas and Villa, they would find them all._

_Nobody reacted to the letter. And he just couldn’t sit in his little shelter doing nothing. He had to do something. He had to come here. A letter they could throw to the trash bin. Not him._

  
  
It has been twenty-seven days.  
  
Twenty-seven days of hiding, of incertitude, of waiting. The church that has become their temporary shelter feels more like prison now. They are waiting for the chance to get away, they know someone is supposed to take them out of the city secretly. Someone Villa knows. Most of the things are planned either by Villa or by Iker. They know the people, they are the ones people follow.  
  
They couldn’t be more different, one from each other, but what they want unites them, what makes them risk their lives makes them closer than family. Some have also other bonds between them, but the longing for freedom is why they are all here.

  
  
 _He is sitting in a small office. There is a lamp on the table, shining right in his eyes. He’s sweating. A commander in a crisp uniform is looking at him. His letter is lying on the table between them._

_“I would like to hear some names,” the commander says._

_He fidgets._

_“I gave you the names in the letter.”_

_“Sure,” the commander says calmly. “Two names. I want all of them.”_

 

  
There is quiet whistling coming from the outside of the church, behind the back door. It sounds like just some bored kid whistling, but they all know it’s a signal. Villa goes to the door and opens it, his gun ready just in case.  
  
He could really still get mistaken for a kid, as he certainly looks younger than he really is. Again, it’s Villa who found him somewhere, this Óliver. What they know is that the kid looks up to Villa like he was God, and no matter how crazy it is to entrust their lives to a seventeen or eighteen years old boy, they can be sure that he would never betray Villa, and thus, none of them.

“Did anyone see you?” Villa asks.

“Of course not!” Óliver snaps.

Villa pats him on the shoulder comfortingly.

“Alright, just asking out of the habit.”  
  
Villa goes down to the crypt where everyone else is hiding, except for Xavi and Andrés who took the watch duty on the gallery upon themselves.

“There is a reward for your heads, you know?” Óliver says and hands them the fresh newspaper.

“I can imagine,” Villa says. “Killing Franco’s most important commander must have made us superstars.”

“Only that they don’t know who we are,” Iker says. “And I hope it stays that way.”

“This is from Sara, by the way,” Óliver says and hands him a letter.

Iker grabs it and narrows his eyes.

“I hope you didn’t read it!”

“No.”

“Fine. Because you’re still too young for that kind of things.”

Everyone laughs. Villa hands Óliver a stack of letters.

“Be careful,” he says.

Óliver rolls his eyes.

“Sure.”

“No, I mean it!” Villa snaps. “If they catch you with these, all the people mentioned there are dead, you understand that?”

“Well, but they’ll never catch me. Not me!” Óliver says calmly and runs the stairs up.

Villa turns to Iker.

“I don’t know if he’s that brave or just really crazy.”

“I would say a very unhealthy combination of both,” Iker sighs. “Which means that he will either become a hero of this war or he’ll be dead in no time.”

  
  
 _He dictates the names, like he recites a poem at school. He even feels the lump in his throat that he always felt when reciting in front of the class. A woman in the corner of the office hits the bars of the typewriter with practiced accuracy, rarely moving the paper back to correct a typo._

_“Are these all?” the commander asks then._

_He nods._

_“And which one was the shooter?”_

_He just shrugs. He doesn’t know. They didn’t agree on that before. The commander starts to read the names aloud._

_“Iker Casillas Fernández, born in Madrid, police officer.”_

_It could have been Iker. He’s probably the best shooter of them all, and he would have taken the responsibility._

_“David Villa Sánchez, born in Tuilla, miner.”_

_It could have been Villa as well. He has the guts to do such thing._

_“David Josué Jiménez Silva, born in Arguineguín, journalist.”_

_He’s almost sure it wasn’t Silva. He’s an idealist, but even if he wanted to, they wouldn’t entrust him with such task._

_“Sergio Ramos García, born in Camas, waiter.”_

_Could it be Sergio? He’s a fool, he would probably not even think of it as of something important. He would just do it and think about the consequences only when they would come._

_“Fernando José Torres Sanz, born in Fuenlabrada, teacher.”_

_He remembers Fernando, his freckled face and big brown eyes, the warm smile all the kids in his class fell for the first day of school. Somehow he can’t imagine him shooting anyone._

_“Xavier Hernández i Creus, born in Terrassa, railway employee.”_

_He can’t imagine Xavi to be the one to shoot. Unless he could hold the gun together with Andrés. They never do anything without the other one._

_“Andrés Iniesta Luján, born in Fuentealbilla, railway employee.”_

_Andrés would probably be the one planning something, but the actual thing, he doubts it._

_“So, where can we find them?” the commander asks._

_“That I don’t know.”_

_“Maybe you know something else.”_

 

 

Iker finishes reading the letter, folds it carefully and puts it in a leather purse together with other letters. Out of everyone here, he’s the only one not to have his closest person with him. He doesn’t know whether it’s good or bad.

He knows that Sara would gladly be here with him and probably she wouldn’t be any worse than his other comrades. People often warned him off her because they judged her more emancipated and daring than was morally acceptable. Alright, mainly Cesc warned him off her, but Cesc surely had different reasons for it than good manners. Never mind that what was between Cesc and Iker was just an episode in Iker’s youth when he was sort of trying to find his true self, a few sloppy kisses and teenage experimenting with intimacy, Cesc still felt like they belonged together and Sara was an intruder. A dangerous intruder, with her red nails and red lipstick and nosy questions, her notepad and fanatical belief that her articles could change the world. But what the others hated about her, Iker loved.

He looks around. Xavi and Andrés are still on the gallery, Sergio and Fernando are giggling over something in the newspaper, Villa is sleeping in the corner.

“Silva!” Iker calls.

No answer. Iker grabs his hat and throws it at Silva. Silva startles and drops the book he is reading.

“What the...”

“I hope you’re not this vigilant when you have the watch upstairs, or I won’t sleep at night!” Iker says.

“Leave Silvita alone, Iker!” Sergio says, throwing the newspaper away. “You should appreciate the fact that at least someone here can read and write.”

“Excuse me?” Fernando frowns.

“Oh, yes, and also Fernando knows the alphabet.”

Iker sighs, same as Villa whom they have just woken up.

“Lend me some paper and a pen, Silva?” Iker asks.

“I won’t have any left if you don’t cut down on that love correspondence, Iker!” Silva huffs but goes to find his writing supplies.

They know it’s just a joke. Truth is that Iker and Sara might write love correspondence, but there’s also plenty of important information in those letters, cleverly hidden between the lines.

“When we get out of here, I’ll buy you a whole stationery shop,” Iker says and takes Silva’s notepad.

 

  
 _A few photographs land in front of him. They are a bit blurry, like took in a hurry. The person who took them didn’t want to be noticed. Still, he does recognize the young woman in the pictures. She is wearing a long coat and a hat, but her face is well visible, mainly in one photograph. She looks nervous, tired, almost sick._

_“Who is she?” the commander asks._

_He gulps._

_“Sara. Sara Carbonero Arévalo. Casillas’ fiancée.”_

_“So she should know where her fiancé is, right?”_

_“Maybe.”_

_“So we should talk to her.”_

 

  
Óliver is about to turn the corner when he spots a group of militia officers approaching. He quickly hides in a passage and watches them. After a while there is no doubt where they are heading. Sara’s house.

To go there now would be crazy. Maybe they will just do some routine questioning and leave her alone, then he can go there tomorrow. Something tells him, however, that it’s all just wishful thinking.

After a while, he heads to a playground where he used to meet with friends before he got tangled in all this. He needs some reminder of his old life to calm down. He can see Manquillo and Koke leaving already, only Saúl stays where he is, leaning over the rusty goal with missing net when he spots him.

“I haven’t seen you since eternity,” he says reproachfully.

“I know.”

“What was so important that you didn’t have time for your friends?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Saúl sighs and folds his arms. At first, he suspected that Óliver simply found other friends, or a girl maybe, that he simply didn’t care anymore. But now something tells him that it’s not that simple. That there is another reason. Something more serious.

“Listen... the shooting here and all the madness now...” he says quietly. “You don’t have anything to do with it, do you?”

Óliver looks at him and suddenly he looks much older and serious than Saúl knows him.

“And if I do?” he asks.

Saúl keeps looking at him for a while. Then he leans closer and pecks him on the lips.

 

  
 _There is no response when one of the officers knocks on the door. He hopes someone has warned Sara. Maybe she’s not home. She could have gone to her family. Then they will just search the apartment and leave._

_When there is no response even after the second knock, the officer simply kicks the door out. And then he knows that Sara didn’t go anywhere. She’s there, burning some papers on the stove frenetically. She turns to them and then opens her mouth when she sees him._

_“You traitor!” she screams and tries to launch herself at him. “How could you?”_

_He recoils, lowers his head, wishes he could disappear._

_“Arrest her!” someone says._

_“Look at me, you little piece of shit!” Sara hisses and he knows the words belong to him._

_He lifts his eyes and meets hers, wild and full of hatred._

_“You killed them!” she whispers. “You killed us all.”_

_When she lifts her hand to her mouth, he understands. Of course Iker had to give it to her. He always thought of everything._

_“No!” he shouts, but one second too late, and still it couldn’t change anything._

_There’s a faint whiff of bitter almonds, the characteristic smell of cyanide, as Sara bites down on the capsule and collapses on the floor._

 

Sometimes they go to the city, blending in, listening to people talking and then coming back with the news. Usually Fernando and Sergio go. Nobody would ever think they are not just some friends killing their time. They look the most inconspicuous out of the group, thanks to Sergio’s cheerful, laid back attitude. Fernando looks more serious, like a young gentleman from the upper-class, when he puts on a tweed jacket and a black tie. He looks beautiful, not only for Sergio. The young girls on the streets always turn around when they’re passing them by. Sometimes even married women turn around and they usually have to disappear quickly not to get in trouble with the jealous husbands. Such commotion is the last thing they need.  
  
Sergio’s family isn’t with Franco. They aren’t against Franco, either. Sergio would stay impartial just the same, if it wasn’t for Fernando. Fernando, who talked to him about things Sergio didn’t really understand, but he talked about them so beautifully. About pride, freedom, justice. Sergio loved watching him read the newspapers, frowning when there was something he didn’t like. He loved listening to him, loved waiting for him in the afternoons when Fernando was finishing work, correcting the children’s works in the tiny office that smelled of wood and old books. He loved everything about him.  
  
When he came home one day and told his family that he was joining the Loyalists, his father slapped his face, his mother cried and his brother called him a fool. But they all knew that they would never stop loving him, no matter what. After all, they certainly took it better than when he told them the secret girlfriend they had been mocking him about was actually called Fernando.  
  
They are walking around the city. Sergio has to tell Fernando not to turn around all the time, it looks suspicious. But it’s just Fernando's nature. He’s always careful and a little bit overprotective. Mainly of Sergio. Sometimes Sergio has to remind him that he’s not one of his pupils.

“I can’t wait until we get out of here,” Sergio says. “Somewhere nobody knows us. Not like home where everyone looks through your windows like it was the best cinema...”

“Shhh!” Fernando says. “Listen.”

The public address system comes to life, the voice sounding almost inhuman. Over the last month it’s on almost constantly, announcing the names of the captured, wanted, executed. To scare, to break, to make the others surrender. The string of names seems to be endless, but one of them is different. One of them they know.

“Sara Carbonero Arévalo, born in Corral de Almaguer, journalist.”

Fernando has to sit on the nearest bench. Sergio just looks at him, strange glint in his eyes.

“Maybe...” he starts.

“There’s no maybe,” Fernando shakes his head. “If they found her, they will find us. It’s just a matter of time.”

 

_“Nothing,” an officer says after searching the apartment. “She burnt it all.”_

_“Damn!”_

_He stands in the corner, too scared to even move, glad nobody is talking to him. The apartment is a mess, knocked off chairs on the floor, papers and clothes everywhere. He is now absolutely convinced that Sara knew where Iker and the others were hiding. She did everything to keep it a secret. Burnt all the letters and documents and took her own life so that they couldn’t get it out of her in any way. And if he doesn’t want to follow her, he has to think of someone else who knows it. Quickly._

 

  
Fernando storms through the church so fast that Sergio has to run after him. When they reach the crypt, they are both out of breath.

“Did you hear...?” Fernando asks.

Just by looking at Iker he knows that they heard everything. Villa is angrily tugging at his sleeves to prevent himself from doing something worse, while Silva is sitting on the floor next to Iker. Xavi and Andrés are still on the gallery even though someone should have already replaced them. They are probably glad to be there now.  
  
They all knew deep inside that they could die, that it was more likely than getting away with a murder of a commander. Everyone took a part in it, everyone was involved somehow that day. Sergio was waiting on a hill to signalize when the commander’s car would be approaching the sharp turn. Silva was crossing the road to slow the car down even more. Fernando was waiting behind the turn with a gun hidden underneath his coat, Villa and Iker were backing him up while Andrés and Xavi were waiting a few meters away with a car.  
Everyone could expect they would get them. But then nobody died and they all just got used to the routine. The routine that was just broken.

 

  
 _“Well, then...” the commander says in a dangerously calm voice. “The useful information didn’t prove to be as useful as it could have been.”_

_He gulps._

_“Any other fiancées you know of?”_

_“None. I mean, none of them have fiancées.”_

_There’s actually an irony hidden in those words. The commander doesn’t get it._

_“Anyone else involved in this?”_

_He doesn’t say anything._

_“Someone had to deliver the messages for them, for example.”_

_“I don’t know who it was.”_

_He knows that if he doesn’t come up with another important name now, he’s in big trouble. There’s the last one he knows._

_“Well, there is an old friend of Villa and Silva, if they told anyone where they were going, it would be him,” he says then._

_The commander looks at him with interest._

_“His name?”_

_He takes a deep breath._

_“Jordi Alba Ramos.”_

 

  
Villa and Silva walk the stairs to the gallery. Xavi and Andrés look at them.

“Well, what’s going on in there?” Andrés asks. “I mean Iker.”

“I guess we should just leave him alone,” Silva shrugs.

“We all saw it coming, but we thought it would be us first,” Xavi says gloomily. “I don’t know how they could find her.”

“They probably spied on her. Or some neighbors could have seen something strange. After all, Sara isn’t... wasn’t the one to stay home and do nothing,” Andrés says.

“Or someone betrayed us,” Villa says with an angry face.

Xavi and Andrés just nod and head to the stairs. Villa and Silva take their places.

“You really think someone betrayed us?” Silva asks quietly.

“I have a feeling,” Villa says.

“What would that mean?”

Villa takes a breath, then decides against saying what he intended to say.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you. You know that,” he says then.

“I know,” Silva smiles. “That’s why I’m here with you.”

Villa touches Silva’s face and leans closer to him. Silva dodges his lips.

“We’re in a church, Villa!” he objects.

“I so don’t care!” Villa breathes. “If God doesn’t do anything about the bastards outside, I don’t get how he could mind us kissing.”

“But if we go in Heaven, it will be you explaining it to him!” Silva laughs.

“Don’t worry. I’ll just say that I couldn’t resist kissing someone I love. No way he can call it a sin.”

 

  
 _It’s late at night and he’s tired to death, but he can’t sleep. Despite being left alone in an empty office which even has a sofa in it. Whenever he closes his eyes, he gets the feeling that Sara is standing above him, staring at him with her haunting, angry eyes._

_He gets up and walks out of the office. There are two officers standing at the end of the corridor. They spot him immediately, but before they can walk up to him and probably send him back, another door opens and he knows that he will have another face to haunt him during sleepless nights. Jordi’s face, full of bruises, blood trickling down his broken nose, split lip and eyebrow on his shirt that is torn on the shoulder. He looks like he doesn’t even know where he is anymore._

_“Take that trash out!” the commander’s voice sounds from the open door._

_Then the commander walks out. He couldn’t have gotten much more sleep than him, but he looks enthusiastic. It can only mean one thing. He knows what he wanted to know._

_“Took us a long time, but finally we know something.”_

_“Really?”_

_“He confessed that he was supposed to take them out of the city in a car. From the church they are hiding in.”_

_“The... church?” he blinks._

_“Yes. The one close to the square. They have been hiding practically under our noses the whole time.”_

_“Then... can I go?” he asks._

_It’s just wishful thinking. No way they will let him go, at least until they get them. They can’t be sure that he wouldn’t change his mind and warn them._

_“Not yet,” the commander says with a dangerous grin. “You might still prove useful.”_

 

It’s early in the morning. Villa and Silva are sitting on the gallery. A few meters from them Iker, who joined them during the night. In an hour, Sergio and Fernando are supposed to take their places.

The night was calm, but Villa still feels some strange restlessness. Like something is about to happen. He knows now that the militia has found their trace. It’s a matter of time until they find them. He thinks about sending Jordi a message to take them out of the city earlier, no matter how risky it would be. At least there would be a chance.

He looks at Silva, who is trying hard not to fall asleep. He doesn’t deserve to be here. Nobody does, but everyone is here for different reasons. Iker, Fernando and him are here because they couldn’t be anywhere else. Because they do what they believe is right. Xavi and Andrés are more concerned for their Catalonia than anything else, but it doesn’t actually stray that much from what the others are fighting for. But Sergio and Silva are here mainly because they couldn’t leave the men they loved. They knew very well what it meant to join them.

Still, Villa would now slap himself for ever allowing Silva to follow him.

 

  
 _He is walking between two officers in the direction of the square. He only drags his feet after the others by the power of will. The church is approaching and he feels more and more like running away. Only that it would probably be the last thing he would do._

_Suddenly his eyes meet another pair, the eyes of a young boy staring at him from the other end of the street. The boy looks like they have just caught him stealing apples in a neighbor’s garden, his face is so pale and frightened. He is sure that his face must look about the same now. Before he can bring himself to do anything, the boy disappears. He looks around. Nobody except of him noticed him. And he decides to keep his mouth shut this time._

 

  
The signal sounds from the outside, only quieter and more hasty. Villa gets up and goes to the door. When he opens it, by one look at Óliver’s face he knows what is happening.

“They’re coming!” Óliver breathes out. “Probably all the units from this part of the city.”

“Where are they?” Villa asks.

“They were two streets away when I saw them.”

Villa marvels at the incredible courage and insolence with which he rather ran here to warn them under the noses of the militia, while he should have run away as far as possible. Then he looks at him.

“What are you waiting for? Get the fuck out of here!”

“I could stay!” Óliver says.

“What for?” Villa snaps. “There are hundreds of them. If we’re seven or eight doesn’t really change anything.”

The heavy steps approach, now they hear them also from the inside.

“Go!” Villa barks and pushes Óliver out of the door before shutting it with the latch.  
  
Iker is waiting on the gallery, loading a gun.

“You think it was him who brought them here?”

They both know who he means.

“I’m fucking sure of that.”

“There are maybe hundreds of them,” Iker says.

“Probably,” Villa nods curtly.

“How long can we last?”

“Until the munition lasts,” Villa shrugs and looks over his shoulder. “Don’t tell Silva that, though.”

Iker sighs.

“He’s maybe a bit naïve, but not stupid,” he says. “He understands more than you think.”

Villa nods. He would prefer Fernando or Sergio here, just to feel a bit more at ease, but actually it doesn’t matter. There is not a safe place in here. It’s all just a matter of time.

He remembers Silva from the better times, remembers the boy always carrying a book, the shy but curious one, the boy with a smile that could brighten a rainy day. It‘s strange, almost devastating to see him here, with a gun in his hand and the strange focused face. It’s even worse to know that he’s here mainly because of Villa. But he doesn‘t complain. He never complains. If he’s afraid, he doesn’t let it show.

“If they were to get us, Iker, and I couldn’t...” Villa starts.

“Don’t worry,” Iker says. “They’re not getting us. Not alive. Any of us.”  
  
By the time the door starts to shake from the outside, they have all the munition and guns ready, except for the few things that stayed in the crypt.

 

  
 _He is watching the soldiers preparing their guns. The commander is walking around like he’s on a morning walk._

_“I would prefer to get them alive,” he says in a bored voice._

_“But, sir, if they put up resistance...” an officer says._

_“Then of course deal with it as necessary.”_

 

  
Óliver only walks out of the door when he spots the first group of soldiers that comes to guard the back of the church. Worse is that they spot him as well.

“Someone get that boy!” a voice shouts.

Óliver darts towards the old cemetery. As the first shot resonates through the air, the bullet still missing him by a good meter, he hides behind a tombstone and pulls out a gun. Villa would probably slap him if he knew he was carrying a gun, but then, he did tell him to be careful and to have a gun corresponds to Óliver’s definition of carefulness.

He aims as well as he can, shoots and second later he’s sprinting through the cemetery again. Judging from the pained cry behind his back, he managed to hit someone. He shoots one more time before climbing up the wall and jumping down on the other side. He doesn’t even think about where he runs anymore, it’s instinctive.  
  
Saúl opens the door and gasps when Óliver almost falls in his arms. He runs his fingers through the damp hair that is stuck to Óliver’s forehead.

“Never... me... never!” Óliver breathes, clutching his friend’s sleeves. “Not me.”

“No, they’ll never get you,” Saúl says. “Never. I’ll make sure of that.”

 

  
 _When the door bursts open and the first soldiers run inside, he still feels the moment of hope. Maybe someone warned them. Maybe they are already gone._  
  
Then the first shots resonate through the empty street and his heart sinks.

 

  
The gallery proves to be a good place, as they are more likely to get anyone who wants to enter the church before they can get them. Still, they know that sooner or later the fight will be over.  
  
Actually, Villa has the feeling that it should be long over, considering how many soldiers there are. He supposes it’s taking so long because those outside want them alive. And he knows he can’t allow it.  
  
Iker is the first one to fall. He lets out a soft gasp, like it surprises him when the bullets pierce his body. He stumbles back and slides down the wall. He can feel someone’s touch on his cheek. He opens his eyes, turns his head and smiles reassuringly.

“It’s alright,” he whispers.

The last thing he sees in his life are Silva’s eyes boring into his.  
  
Villa looks at the last cartridge. He changes the empty one and shoots four times more. He counts carefully.

He’s the last one shooting, Silva ran out of munition a few minutes ago.

“Come here!” Villa calls.

Silva crawls closer to him, so exhausted that Villa has to lift him to his knees and hold him to his chest. He smells of gunpowder and incense, it’s so foreign and unnatural. Their lips touch and at least this is familiar, this feels like home. Villa raises his hand. When the cold gun barrel touches Silva’s temple, he opens his eyes but doesn’t move. Just his lips shiver against Villa’s and his grip on Villa’s sleeves tightens. Villa pulls the trigger before the last rests of courage can leave him.  
  
There are steps on the stairs leading to the gallery. Four soldiers and two other men between them. Villa turns to them, still holding Silva in his arms. He looks the traitor in the eyes as he decides that he doesn’t even deserve his words. Then he lifts his hand and without thinking presses the gun to his temple and uses the last bullet left.

 

  
 _He looks on, suddenly appalled by the scene in front of him. Everything dawns on him. He looks at Iker’s body, surprised at how peaceful he actually looks. Like he is just resting there, between the empty magazines, spent cartridges and now useless guns. He is afraid to even breathe, as if he could disturb that peace with any movement._

_“Well, these are not all, if I count well,” the commander says. “Where are the others?”_

_“Maybe...” he takes a breath. “Maybe they are not here anymore.”_

_It’s a lame attempt to save what can’t be saved anymore. Before the commander can say something, there is a voice from the back of the church._

_“Come here! There is a staircase!”_

 

  
They listen to the sudden silence. Fernando’s eyes flicker to Sergio. There are tears in his eyes. Somehow he can’t bring himself to do anything either. He might have been the one to shoot at the commander, the others agreed on it, as he was the one people would suspect the least, so he could get the closest. But he still had Iker and Villa behind his back then. Now he doesn’t feel like he should be the one to lead.

“So...” Xavi says then and clears his throat. “I would say it’s our turn now.”

 

  
 _He stares at the dark, narrow staircase leading to the crypt._

_“Maybe you could be of some use,” the commander says. “Lure them out.”_

_“How?” he breathes._

_“Tell them that if they come out, nothing will happen to them.”_

_He tells them. The only sound that comes in response is Sergio’s bitter, scornful laughter followed by silence. The first soldiers descend down the stairs._

_“_ Visca Catalunya lliure _, motherfuckers!” Xavi’s voice yells from the darkness._

_Then the battle starts._

 

  
\- TWO YEARS LATER -

  
_The pub he’s sitting in is one of the better ones. He doesn’t care. There is some soft jazz music playing. He doesn’t listen._  
  
There is a different name in his passport now, enough money in his purse and nice clothes on his body. Only that he doesn’t care about any of that anymore. He orders another glass. Doesn’t know how many he has already had. He’s still not drunk enough to make the disturbing images leave his mind. For that he has to drink until he blacks out, and as soon as he wakes up in the morning, his head spinning and hurting, they come back. Sara’s eyes. Jordi’s bruised face. Iker’s peaceful smile. Silva’s face that looked so distant. Villa’s eyes looking into his, burning with hate and disdain. Sergio and Fernando, holding hands so tightly that they couldn’t separate them even after death.  
  
Another glass wouldn’t be enough. He pays for a whole bottle, grabs it and with unsteady steps heads out of the pub.  
  
He has to cross an area of dark alleys and backyards. He is almost glad for it, as nobody can see him in the state he is in. Then again, why should he care.

_“Look what we have here!” a voice sounds from the dark._

_In his drunken state he makes out four or five youngsters encircling him. He knows that there are still some groups of Liberalists wandering around, mainly young fools who refuse to believe it’s all over, those who somehow escaped the raids after Franco’s final win. He knows he should look out for them, with his face, attitude and all, but he doesn’t care._

_“A rat, it seems!” one of the youngsters chuckles, pushing him and making him tumble to the ground._

_“Not just a rat,” another voice says. “It’s_ the _rat.”_

_He lifts his head._

_“Really?” the first voice asks. “This is him, Óliver?”_

_He recognizes the boy from the church. He looks a bit older now, but the cheeky, defiant look in his eyes is still there._

_“Yes, it’s him. I’d recognize him everywhere.”_

_“Then give him what he deserves, Saúl,” a boy who hasn’t yet spoken says, pulling a gun out of his jacket. “Unless Óliver wants to have the privilege.”_

_“No, thank you. I don’t feel like wasting my energy on him.”_

_“Maybe we should wait for him to sober up,” Saúl says._

_“But that could be like... never!” Óliver states._

_He doesn’t care. Not as much as he should, anyways._

_“Shoot me and you’ll follow me within days,” he chuckles._

_“I’ll gladly take the risk,” Saúl growls and grabs the gun._  
  
The last thing Cesc Fàbregas wishes for is to go straight to Hell, so that he won’t have to look his seven comrades in the eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> * Visca Catalunya lliure! = Long live free Catalonia!  
> * This is based on a real story that happened in my country during WWII. A group of emigrants came back to the country to get rid of the German protector. The seven men and several whole families died because of the eighth man who reported them to Gestapo. The traitor was executed after the war.


End file.
